


Processional

by totallycheesey



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Cinematic Universe, Justice League (2017)
Genre: Angst, Grieving, M/M, SuperBat, i wanted this to end with smut but it was too emotional to turn into porn so i apologize, not as sad as some of the other things ive written though, takes place in a universe without lois
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-03 19:22:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12754590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/totallycheesey/pseuds/totallycheesey
Summary: A take on how Bruce's grief affected his relationship with Clark after Clark returned.





	Processional

**Author's Note:**

> I promise I'll write smut next time. It just didn't feel right for this pairing in the context of the Justice League movie, though. There's too much between them that needs resolution before things are alright. So I chose to write about the pain and the journey to feeling alright.

            _You better not be the first person he sees when he wakes up._

The sting was there, but after bringing up Steve Trevor, Bruce had no place to snap at Diana. It was true, too; Clark would, more likely than not, murder Bruce, then attack the League. And that would be that. Bruce would be gone, but at least there would be Clark.

            The group was standing at the ready around Clark, who was turned away, staring at the broken monument built in his name. Shirtless. The bands of muscle were sweaty, beautiful, deadly. Clark looked like a statue of himself, no face. When he turned, there was still no recognition. The blue eyes met Bruce’s. He fucked up by even being around.

            Too fast to see, Clark flew to Bruce. He was inches away and his hands were clenching Bruce’s arms with the strength of mountains and suns and God and earth and Clark’s lips were on his and everything was blinding and hurt so beautifully that Bruce could’ve cried.

 

 

            “A year isn’t bad,” Clark said before taking a sip of his coffee. First coffee since being dead. It was better than he ever could have imagined.

            Bruce, hunched over his spreadsheets, said, “It was like a nap for you. It was a long time for everyone else.”

            Clark set down the mug. Bruce edged the mug away from the blueprints. Clark looked up at Bruce for a long while before asking, “A long time for you too?”

            Bruce stood up straight. He was still staring at the papers, but Clark could feel Bruce’s attention burning into him. Bruce said, with difficulty, “A year is a long time.”

 

 

            He knew Clark was only toying with him. Bruce knew he stood no chance in a “real fight” against the godly Superman. But he still grit his teeth and said, “Clark, you need to pay attention. I know I can’t teach you much given your natural abilities, but it would be helpful if you knew more about hand-to-hand combat than headbutting your opponent.”

            Clark laughed and held a hand up just before Bruce’s punch landed. He held Bruce’s hand in place, somehow both loving and defensive. “Why would I ever need to do that when I can just do this?” He thrusted forward and Bruce’s knees buckled, crumbling on the ground.

            “Because someday there’ll be another Zod. Or another Doomsday. Or another Steppenwolf. Or something much worse, that knows how to fight with both strength and skill.” Clark was still holding his hand. Bruce pulled away and wiped his forehead against his wrist.

            Clark’s smile faded. “You know I’m kidding, right?” He looked down at Bruce with an increasingly unsure expression and appeared as near pity from where Bruce knelt. He stuck out his hand. “I do want to learn from you, Bruce.”

            Slowly, Bruce stood. Clark’s hand wavered in the gap between them before falling to his side.

 

 

            “So we’re doing this?”

            Bruce set the upper-half of his armor on the ground and began prying at his boots. “Yes. You’re alive. I want to feel you again.”

            From behind him, Clark said, “You seem different. I wasn’t sure…” There was the thump of his cape coiling on the carpet, followed by the sound of cloth being snaked off his chest.

            The modesty, following Clark’s death, _was_ strange. It wasn’t the type of strange that Bruce felt was okay to share with Clark. They were facing apart while they undressed, whereas before Clark’s death they would have undressed each other with each other’s teeth and lips. It was that kind of strange.

            The boots came off, then Bruce pulled off his pants and underwear. He stacked all his clothing neatly against the wall. For some reason, he didn’t want to face Clark. For the same reason, he did it anyways.

            Clark was floating a couple inches off the floor, naked. He seemed translucent. The ghost asked sadly, “Am I still dead to you?”

            Bruce stepped forward. He looked down at the carpet, then ran his eyes quickly up Clark’s body. He reached out and touched Clark’s cheek, slowly tracing down his jawbone to his neck, like checking a pulse. He pulled his hand back and Clark let his feet settle on the carpet.

 

 

            The voice in the night admitted, “It’s different for me too.”

            Bruce tilted his head up on his pillow, watching the dark pattern of the ceiling shift slightly with every passing car, every helicopter, all the Gotham night sky could bring to his field of vision. “Bad different?”

            “No, not really.” Clark rolled closer and Bruce willed his body to release its tension. “You just seem so sad.”

            “You were gone for a really long time.”

            “I was gone for a year.” The silence stretched over the screeching of tires and pumping of factories in a web only visible between the two of them. “I thought we were more than a year.”

            Bruce’s face tautened. It was hard to speak. His eyes prickled. “I can’t lose you again.”

            “And you won’t.”

            “I outlive everyone,” said Bruce, voice damningly invincible.

 

 

            Clark’s tongue was soft enough that it made Bruce weep. Quietly, his eyes overflowed and his hands flew to his face. His shuddering led Clark to look up. Bruce mumbled, “Keep going, it’s okay.”

            Leaning up from between Bruce’s thighs, Clark said, “Bruce…” He took Bruce’s hands in his and pulled them slowly down to the mattress. Bruce tried to face away, but could hardly move from the weight of Clark sitting on his legs. “Bruce, please,” Clark pleaded.

            Biting his lip hard, Bruce let a sob escape. “I brought you back thinking you would kill me. It was my fault. All my fault.”

            “I’m happy to be back, Bruce. Really.” Clark tried to smile but found himself tearing up instead.

            “I should’ve never let you die in the first place.”

            Clark laughed gently, the crying caught deep in his mouth. He cleared his throat. His voice felt heavy. “ _I_ let me die. You’re the only reason I wasn’t killed sooner.”

            Bruce’s eyes opened tentatively. He watched the ceiling, trying to find the words. It came to him in pieces. “You aren’t the first person I’ve lost. But you’re the first one I’ve loved like this. You aren’t family. You’re something else.” He thought for a moment. “For how often it happens to me, I’m not good at losing people.”

            A tear beaded in Clark’s lower lashes and fell to Bruce’s forehead. It ran down the worry lines and buried itself in his hair. “That’s not something you should ever be good at.” He kissed Bruce’s jaw gently, then moved to his lips. He said, “Enjoy me now, at least.”

            Gaze agonizingly accepting, Bruce offered his mouth to Clark and let him in deeply, wanting to take all he had inside himself, unraveling himself against the inevitable.


End file.
